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Nurse Catherine Jiwitski shifted in the bedside chair in an effort to relieve her crinkled back, aching shoulder, and sore backside, but she didn't let go of little Jimmy's hand. All through the night she had been there for him, and, despite exhaustion, she was as determined as ever that the boy would never be alone.
After months of struggle, Jimmy was on the verge of losing his long, torturous, hopeless battle against cancer. Yesterday morning, Dr. Morse predicted that the boy would probably not live another day, and Dr. Morse was seldom mistaken about such things. So Nurse Jiwitski began her death vigil, as she had done so many times before for so many patients.
Ironically, when she entered nursing thirty years earlier, it was to help save lives, not to help them slip away. But she soon realized the limitations of medical practice to delay the inevitable, and learned of the stark and desperate need of many dying patients to have someone there to simply provide emotional support at the end of their lives. When family members and friends didn't exist, were unwilling, or had simply exhausted their own abilities to provide such comfort, Nurse Jiwitski made it her business to be there. For her patients in the 'death wing' of the hospital, she was often the last human being they saw or spoke to or held hands with.
Most of the hospital staff purposely maintained a professional distance emotionally from their patients. They simply couldn't let themselves get too close. To do so would not only impair their ability to provide aid, but would also destroy themselves emotionally. They remained concerned, but they got 'used to' disease and death. Largely to protect themselves, many even seemed 'cold' and unconcerned to their patients, even though they were devoting their lives to providing treatment.
Nurse Jiwitski couldn't do that with her patients. The sharing of the death experience was a highly intimate thing. She took exactly the opposite approach. In the short time that she had with her patients, she tried to get to know each of them, and to become as close as possible. As a result, the passage of each patient was a terrible, shattering ordeal for Nurse Jiwitski, but it was something that she just had to do. For how could she possibly ignore such need?
She remained something of an enigma to much of the hospital staff, who over the years viewed her efforts with contempt, envy, astonishment, and every other possible feeling. Still, most recognized her enormous value to her patients.
For her devotion to her calling she had paid an enormous price. Her two marriages had fallen apart, and she never had children of her own. Her apartment was not a home, it was merely a place to eat and rest. Her work was her whole life, a life in which she continually made friends who then died. It was a life that required unimaginable strength.
Patients like Jimmy were the worst. Six months ago, the seven year old had been a healthy, happy child. Now his thin pale body was near the end of its strength. Yet he was still hanging on to life, she could tell from the warmth in his hand, and the slow steady rise and fall of his chest as he slept. The boy hadn't given up; his body had.
Neither could she give up. For the dozenth time since she met Jimmy, she sat with her eyes shut and 'meditated'. She first focused on herself, and then tried to mentally project well-being and health into Jimmy. She had been doing this for years, after reading in a magazine about people who claimed that they could heal others that way. She wasn't sure that it was impossible, so she did it. She didn't really think that it helped her patients, but it made her feel a little better, knowing that she had at least tried.
Strangely enough, since the previous evening, it seemed to her that her ability to concentrate mentally had improved. Her thoughts and her sense of self were somehow stronger and clearer than ever before. She felt that she could actually sense her own life force and project it into Jimmy. She also felt that she could sense the bad, alien life in him, and help him destroy it. And, even more strange, she imagined that she felt a growing strength in Jimmy!
A squeeze from Jimmy's hand brought her out of her 'trance'. This meant the end, she thought. Death often came as a few final convulsive movements.
"Mrs. Bryson!” she said loudly, even before she opened her eyes. The boy's mother, Amy Bryson, and his father, George Bryson, snapped awake where they had sat cradled in each other's arms through most of the night. Exhaustion, dismay and terror were etched on their faces. All three adults fully expected to then witness Jimmy's death.
"I'm hungry," said Jimmy loudly, as he sat up on his bed. His color was normal, and his eyes were bright and clear. The adults could only stare at him in astonishment. "Can I please have some Cheerios?" he asked. "In chocolate milk?” It was his favorite breakfast, and Jimmy hadn't eaten anything in several days.
His mother, crying, hugged the boy, while his father, sobbing also, hugged them both. The boy still clang to Nurse Jiwitski's hand. "Nurse Cathy helped me feel better, Mom," he said. “I’m not sick anymore.” He gave her hand one final squeeze before letting go of it to hug his mom and dad.
"How do you feel now?" asked Nurse Jiwitski, still disbelieving. "Do you feel any pain?” In the last two weeks, his pain had grown beyond the control of medication.
"I feel great! I'm just real hungry and thirsty, Nurse Cathy," replied Jimmy. "I'm all better. Can I go home now?"
"I don't know, Jimmy. We'll have to ask Dr. Morse. I'll go to find him.” She rushed out of the room on unsteady legs, tears streaming from her eyes and her head spinning, not daring to hope that the boy was truly cured. Yet somehow, she knew that he was fully cured, and that she had helped to cure him!
Two hours later, Dr. Morse found Nurse Jiwitski sitting with Mary Losh, another terminal cancer patient. They sat motionless, grasping each other's hands, with their eyes shut tight, as though they were concentrating together.
"Catherine," he said, though he felt it awkward to interrupt them. "The lab results on the Bryson boy are back. It's just incredible! Complete remission!”
Nurse Jiwitski and Mary didn't move.
"Do you hear me Catherine? I said, it's complete remission! The boy is completely cured! He's on his way home now!”
Nurse Jiwitski opened her eyes, but otherwise didn't move. "Yes, I knew that this morning, Doctor. And I think that I'm getting better at it! Please test Mr. Curtis next. Then Mrs. Andrews. I'll be another fifteen minutes or so with Mary.” She closed her eyes again, smiling, tears of happiness streaming down her worn but joyful face.
Dr. Morse couldn't believe what he had just heard. Had the pressure finally gotten to his favorite nurse? But he felt that he had better check in on Mark Curtis. Fifty-three year old Mr. Curtis was bed-ridden and failing rapidly, and probably wouldn't live to see a new year, if there was going to be one after Dannos struck, that is.
Dr. Morse knocked and entered Mr. Curtis' room to an astonishing sight. Mr. Curtis, fully dressed in his street cloths, was sitting in a chair finishing off a large breakfast as he watched the VISICOM. Sitting on the floor next to him was his suitcase, evidently packed and ready to go. On the COM, a news commentator was in near hysteria as she babbled on about people flying, reading minds, and doing 'the soap trick', whatever that meant! Meanwhile, on the COM screen a dozen kids were shown flying hand in hand with Mickey Mouse over Epcot Center. But it wasn't an advertisement made with special effects; it was supposed to be real! Morse stared at the screen, then back at Curtis. He couldn't comprehend it all. What the hell was going on?
"Well it's about time, Doc," said Mr. Curtis. "How about signing me out of this joint? Hey, watch this, Doc.” Curtis suddenly floated up into the air! He reached the ceiling and kept going, poking his head through the ceiling for a few seconds. Then he floated back down to face his doctor. "Pretty good hah Doc? I think I'm Guatemala Material. But first things first. I'm still starving, and the food here is terrible. Say, isn't there a Bob's Big Boy across the street? Maybe I'll just fly on over."
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